Down Through the Chimney
by GrrHatLet
Summary: Tom never believed in Santa Claus.


…Well _this_ is a cheery little oneshot. I didn't mean for this to be my first Harry Potter story but, it sort of came and I had to let it out.

* * *

Tom did not believe in Father Christmas.

Tom was too old for fairy tales, even if he was only 9 years old (10 next week). And as the old man sitting in Wool's least worn armchair helped a little boy into his lap Tom ignored him completely. A good book supplying cold, true facts was the closest to comfort the boy knew. Fairy tales, while nice to listen to, often disappointed. And if this Father Christmas was really real, why didn't _adults_ ask him for anything? Mrs. Cole _certainly_ wanted some more gin, didn't she?

Standing across the room one Billy Stubbs—common-day bully, but trivial as far as the matrons were concerned—sent a glare at him and Tom had a feeling he wasn't the only one here against his will.

He didn't _want_ to be here of course (and judging by the looks everyone was giving him, the feeling was mutual), but the nursemaid who'd brought them all down said _everyone _deserved to see Father Christmas. New, Tom supposed, by the way she had smiled at him when she said that. …Now that Tom thought about it he hadn't really seen one of the older matrons who used to work here. Mrs. Todd was it? Odd of her to disappear around the time she'd sent Tom to bed without supper.

The little boy gave the man a tight hug before hopping down from his lap—and then shoving the kid sitting closest to the chair so he would instead. The nursemaid and "Father Christmas" were too busy settling another child into his lap to notice.

This one was convincing enough: the red velvet suit was clean and the elastic holding the beard was barely noticeable under his ears. The black boots were probably real; factory worker, most likely. A place many of the boys would see their future in years to come. The weight was probably from a pillow; no man as well-fed as Santa would ever come here. Perhaps simply another man who loved kids…just not enough.

The boy on his lap was practically infantile, and the pressure appeared to be too much for him, because he looked up at the man and started crying. The woman immediately took him away, patting his back, and Tom could still hear it whining when she'd returned.

Everyone ignored it.

Around him the children continued to talk, play, laugh, even though they could catch their death outside, even though the older kids made their lives even worse, even though the place they lived in was an utter hellhole. Tom never understood the holiday season; why bother acting so kind to each other all of a sudden when they were not going to continue it the rest of the year?

A girl was on his lap now. Bouncing and babbling and her face full of life. The children were all circled around him, half still waiting in line, the other half in tight-squeezed pockets on the floor. Tom would have sneered at the little harem but Billy Stubbs and the mawkishly-sweet nursemaid were still in site. And even if Tom would have wanted a reason to leave this falsity, he did not feel like going to bed hungry…or worse. Some other infantile children were being stifled by the older through threats, promises, or simple commands. The little girl was still talking…

"And I wanna pony, a dollhouse, a teddy bear…and I wanna be a _princess_!" She gushed, blue eyes glistening with delight.

Tom didn't need to look up to see the man rub the back of his head, giving the trademark "Ho ho _ho_!" just to keep them convinced, and weasel out a reason why none of those things were going to happen.

"That's a big list there, Macey,"

Tom didn't understand why they came: the volunteers or children. The only thing the orphans would receive was disappointment but the adults…as mentioned, Tom couldn't understand why they came. Tom desired something _better _than gifts, and he knew Father Christmas couldn't bring him that. If there was one thing he learned in this place of rot, it was if you didn't take care of yourself, nobody would.

"I'll see what he can do," he promised, "but only if you're a good little girl." He asserted, striking up his first finger as though it were the epitome of authority. In a way it was; a lot of kids seemed to respect this man more than the caretakers—then again, caretakers didn't give gifts. Maybe all this—decorations, singing, custom—was done to _appease_ him. Foolish but it made sense: the man _gave_ things, and people were nice to someone if there was something in it for them. Quite convenient since the only thing he asked of anyone was to be nice.

Tom glanced at the clock. They'd been here 2 hours now. He was already halfway through his thick hardback novel…though admittedly, he'd finished it 3 times before.

"Promise me that, sweetie?"

"Oh _yes_!" Macey guaranteed. "I'll be a good so I'll get my gift!"

The little girl had worded the whole point of this charade just _perfectly:_ the children were only here, only so unlike themselves, because they wouldn't dare be "naughty" in the presence of a man who would reward them for being good. Everybody did something for something, and no one did something for nothing. Another life-lesson he'd learned in the caring arms of Wool's Orphanage.

As for gifts, the caretakers did what they could. Children who asked for "ponies" were given horse heads on top of long sticks. Children who asked for train rides were lucky to get a set to share with (which some little kid undoubtedly stupid enough _still_ attempted to ride on, and like all shared toys it was useless within a week). Toy guns or swords weren't allowed—many of the nursemaids thought they were too "violent"—so those children gained balls and bats instead. Tom wished some of those children had gotten their requests: a toy gun was much harder to hit with.

There was a long silence, and then Tom barely heard one of the nursemaids asking, "Has everyone had their turn?"

"_Tom_ hasn't." A small girl's voice announced.

Instantly the whole room grew silent as death. Clearly this girl must have arrived recently, because _nobody_ attracted attention to Tom Riddle; nobody wanted his attention on _them._

"Tom?"

Tom glanced up, trying to make it seem like he was immersed in his book. He narrowed his eyes as if trying to remind her of a rule so constantly strained on the orphans: it's rude to interrupt someone when they're busy. But the woman didn't seem ruffled. Yes, she definitely must've been new. A young face, clean clothes…either that or a volunteer.

"Don't you want to ask Father Christmas for anything?"

He shook his head without speaking and steered his attention to the book. Books were another common gift the orphans didn't ask for, and Tom had managed to read every one they tossed aside before Christmas came again; it was all he _could _do without getting blamed for something.

The room was now _poisoned_ with silence as children shuffled their feet and exchanged fearful glances.

The woman smiled at him again, and knelt down to his eye-level. "Now, Tom, there must be _something_ you want this Christmas."

Tom had nothing to ask that this man could give; until a year ago, he'd asked for the same thing every year, and it never came. Still, if she so _insisted_ on interrupting him, he supposed he should teach her that it was wrong.

He arched a brow, and he woman smiled wider—so glad to have ensnared his attention—and nodded. "Go on, dear."

Tom glanced at the man sitting on the least-worn chair. The man who embodied goodwill, sincerity, generosity, false hope, broken promises, and disappointments all at once.

The man smiled just like she did, and Tom smiled back. To an adult it was innocent, eager-to-please. To the children…

Well, they knew better.

Without even blinking, Tom said, "I want to be adopted."

Silence.

Suddenly a little girl's hand sprang up. "I WANNA CHANGE MY WISH!"

"ME TOO!"

"ME THREE!"

The room flooded with sounds, faces, legs, as the horde of ravenous children all but _buried _the man sitting in the chair as he and the nurse tried to keep them from getting anyone or anything hurt.

Tom smirked and merely tucked his novel under his arm as he walked back upstairs. He could no longer hear the whining child in the nursery as he strolled to his room.

Truthfully, _had_ he still believed in Father Christmas, he would've known better than to ask the same thing twice. Were he a person who believed in second chances, he would've asked him to turn him into a grown-up so he could leave this place once and for all; if finding adults who wanted secondhand-children was too troublesome for Saint Nicholas then Tom would simply be one himself. That is, if he had confidence in him…

Tom had learned one year ago Father Christmas was something so contradictory Tom didn't know where to begin: normally adults discouraged children from making up stories and stressed them tell the truth, but when Tom had tried to tell one boy Father Christmas wasn't real he was _punished_.

Perhaps the man was just representation of the "never doubt adults" rule; an example of an adult's unquestionable authority, and a means to keep children under control. After all, being good was all Father Christmas wanted, and being good was all any adult ever wanted of a child.

Tom always found the concepts of being "good" and "bad" very subjective.

Tom didn't dwell on the disaster much as he crawled into bed, under his threadbare blanket, in his even more threadbare pajamas. Tom knew while fairy tales weren't true, they meant well; always trying to imply that good would overcome evil, that somewhere out there was someone who would rescue in the nick of time. Someone who didn't permit bullies, or poverty, or skipped meals. There was just one problem:

Children needed to learn fairy tales were the _only_ place such characters existed.

He bunched as close to himself as he could to keep warm, and the thin blanket—which had served better to previous children as a tissue—draped around his frame. He shut his eyes against the noises of sobbing, whining, and the voice of that nursemaid still trying to resolve things downstairs. No doubt she would be hearing a lot about Tom from the other caretakers the next day.

Their voices penetrated the walls and let the world know just how reliable Father Christmas really was. Hearing all their pained and disappointed cries though, Tom _did_ feel a twinge of regret:

They were so bloody noisy.


End file.
